


beautiful tragedy

by josiebelladonna, nirvhannahcornell (josiebelladonna)



Series: at land's end [5]
Category: Anthrax (US Band), Bandom, Metallica
Genre: Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Body Paint, Diary/Journal, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Fanart, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Matter of Life and Death, Painting, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sleep Deprivation, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Slice of Life, Trying to be normal, Watching Someone Sleep, Writing on Skin, more healing on author's part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 19,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26555383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiebelladonna/pseuds/josiebelladonna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiebelladonna/pseuds/nirvhannahcornell
Summary: the follow up to the mirror never lies.Three years following the bus accident, Lars is released from his duties as drummer for Metallica and in a period which he's in no mood for such an affair. Meanwhile, Anthrax release Joey before the State of Euphoria tour and right at their pinnacle no less.A phone call and a flight out to California later and the two re-examine their wounds... but not without a price to pay on either of their ends.
Series: at land's end [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842376
Kudos: 1





	1. splitting hairs (joey's point of view)

**Author's Note:**

> named for the In This Moment album.  
> The idea for this one just kinda came to me, to say in the least after the mirror never lies, as it'll go more in depth into the psychology behind self injury and eating disorders as well as how I found my out... as well as what happened to me recently.  
> i'm just gonna let the text do the talking.
> 
> once again:  
> if you, or if you know someone with the issue of self harm, text HOME to 741741 if you live in the US or Canada (in the UK, it's 85258; Ireland, it's 086 1800 280)  
> Eating disorders, call this number: (800) 931-2237  
> And there's no direct number, but to contact Anxiety and Depression Association of America, go to their website: adaa.org
> 
> And in fact, if someone is so much as dealing with low self-image, don't ever be afraid to reach out to them. Encourage them for better habits. Empathize with them. Be their friend. I was pretty much alone with my struggles so... they probably need that outer boost.
> 
> xoxo, nirvhannah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Put my collar up. I'm in way too deep.  
>  I see dark shadows up ahead.  
> I'm taking every step as if it was my last.  
> I wonder if I'll make it out alive..."_  
> -"Down and Out", Joey Belladonna

I never expected the phone call to be so quick and swift, much less to happen at all. I had overheard them talking about it, for sure, but it was a suggestion. I had taken advantage of the fact that I was the lead singer. I was letting it get to me. Granted, I hadn't been fucking everything in sight, but I knew if the bunch of us were partying like the dickens every night because of me, it would come with a price in the end—especially given the fact Scott actually chucked a TV out the window on the night of his birthday. While Charlie was glad to watch _The Price is Right_ the next morning on Chuck Billy's set, Frankie and I were glad it didn't hit anybody in the head.

I just wanted to have fun. We all did. It only made sense to me that that was the case for us all. There we were, rising in the wake of losing Cliff and parlaying upon the sound Metallica had honed in up to that point. We were running adjacent to each other.

We were “among the living” as we would say. Reaching the top of the proverbial mountain and I was the key master. The guy up front. The man with the mic. The fellow in a state of euphoria.

Charlie even suggested that phrase as the name of the new album and the follow up to _Among the Living_. He said it was truth, that we were in fact in a state of euphoria, a feeling of being up high, high in the clouds. An unstoppable force that was Anthrax and Joey Belladonna was your man to remember for years to come.

And so after that night, I picked myself out of the bed, took an aspirin, and vowed to never touch a can of booze again. I hated the way it dried out my mouth, too. Dried out my mouth to where I couldn't sing too well.

I also needed to quit doing it so much because it was upsetting my stomach.

I still don't know what the hell overcame me following the accident: Jessica didn't mean shit to me especially when Lars and I started to glean off of each other and put some thought into it. But the damage had done itself in on me. I needed to eat and take better care of myself because too much alky makes the tummy reel in agony, and I don't each so much as a result. In other words, I needed to stop because I wasn't eating, and when I don't eat, I spiral again.

So I thought for sure I was in the clear, especially when we were all on the same page in recording the new record. I had given my voice again to those new songs, “book report songs” as Scott called them. I thought the recording was a bit rushed, but that was just from my perspective, though. I was there to sing and have fun with my band mates: Scott and Charlie took care of the rest.

“Don't worry 'bout it, Joe,” Frankie assured me with a grin on his face.

But I came home to my place the night after following overseeing the mixing process and I had this weird feeling within me. A pit in my stomach and not one from hunger. I couldn't explain it. It was a miracle I could sleep that night, too, because it gnawed away at me like a hungry creature.

I was jarred awake by the phone ringing. I almost rolled right out of my bed to check it out.

“Hello? Wait—Charlie—Charlie—slow down—slow—do you have any idea what time it is?”

The pain in his voice was palpable.

I didn't understand.

“No, Charlie, please—you're splitting hairs,” I told him in hopes to try and console with him. He sniffled real loud.

Either someone died or—

“I'm so sorry, Joey—but we have to let you go.”

It was like the floor fell away from underneath me. I'm still surprised I didn't drop the phone.

“What—” I could barely talk. “What the—fuck—why?”

He didn't reply.

“Charlie,” I said as I felt a lump form in my throat. “Charlie—what—what's going on? Charlie?”

He let out a sob and turned away from the phone. He must've let it hang there because all I could hear was him crying.

“Charlie!” I shouted even though it was five o'clock in the morning and Mrs. Foxworth was probably still asleep. “Charlie!”

Nothing. And then— _click_. I was met with a dial tone. That was it. That's it.

I'm standing there in my underwear and with a heavy feeling in my chest. Like I just got socked right in the stomach. Shoved into a pile of cement and then they kicked me while I was still down. Buried alive.

I can't do anything other than run into the bathroom. The tears are falling. I don't believe it. I don't want to believe it.

I turn on the light and stand over the sink. I feel so sick. This can't be happening. This can't be true. No. God, please, no.

What did I do!

This is my fault, I know it. I did something and no one is going to tell me. I run some cold water over my face but it's useless. I'm still crying.

And I'm going to be out of money soon. I have just enough to pay my rent for the next couple of months but that's about it. I either have to convince Charlie to let me back in for another try, do my own thing and hope for the best, or be like a regular old schlub and go to work over in Schenectady or someplace that'll take me. Any place that will take me.

Take me from myself.

I had been doing so well in terms of eating: since we believed we were unstoppable, we received big fat paychecks... to us, anyways.

I rebounded from that little starvation episode following the bus accident... somewhat anyways. If you've got even a little Native American in you, you're bound to hit a certain age and let good old Father Time tell you it's good but not without the price of your skin, though. At least that's what happened to my mom.

I just know I'm going to look both young and old until the day I drop dead. My old stone face is starting to show itself, and I'm not even fucking thirty yet.

I turn my head to the side and push my hair back as if I'm checking my ear. There's a little indentation on the side of my face, indicative of either age or my face filling out.

I look straight ahead at myself, right into those bloodshot eyes. My face is filling out: my cheekbones look rounder and my chin is fuller.

I'm going to be out of money soon and my face is filling out.

Yeah, Joey Belladonna is your man to remember for years to come, for sure. He's the singing guy who packed up and left at his peak and turned into a washed up fat fuck with inverted pockets like poor old Elvis. And if I do die, it won't be with dignity like someone like Ian Curtis or Jimmy Morrison. I would just have my voice to play into and nothing tangible like poetry.

I can't even die as a poet.


	2. at home (lars’ point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“Time stands still, beauty in all she is.  
>  I will be brave; I will not let anything, take away.  
> What's standing in front of me...  
> Every breath, every hour has come to this.”_  
> -“a thousand years”, Christina Perri

I had crawled underneath the covers of the bed and snuggled down when I felt my arm itch like crazy. It was one of those types of itches that felt as though it emanated from under the skin. I rubbed my wrist upon the top of the blanket because I wasn’t willing to use my fingers to do the job.

I sighed through my nose. I rested my hand on my wrist so as to prevent any more itching. The feel of my skin upon my skin was all I needed at that moment.

I always knew that when god closed a door she opened a window, and such was the case with me. I arrived home earlier today after a short, terse but concise conversation with James in that he and Kirk actually considered firing me. Apparently he had thrown out the idea to Kirk prior to the _Master of Puppets_ tour, and Scott had overheard the conversation. I had no clue such a thing was going to actually happen especially when Scott told me about it after I came home from Joey’s place there in upstate New York. It was hearsay, or so I believed anyway. James had confirmed it to me that day.

I asked him what caused him and Kirk the change of heart, but once the words had left my lips, I knew it was about Cliff.

I still couldn’t hardly shake the image of the two of them running down that dark road together given the extent of their anger. However, I would always thank Joey for sitting with me there on the side of the road, and I would always thank him for letting me stay with him there in upstate. Such a gentle, sweet man, that Joey. A breath of fresh air given the situation I was experiencing at the moment.

I pulled my knees up towards my chest and cradled my hands in my lap as though they had been burned. To think I had had a pair of lips upon those old scars there.

I knew my skin would always be scarred even with those gentle caresses courtesy of Debbie. More tender than the scar above my left eye.

She and I were separated at the moment, by nothing more than circumstance—she in England, and I here in the United States. And yet, even with the presence of a promise ring, and my vow to make it official, to make her my wife and have her next to me, almost felt so out of reach to me.

Before I went to bed, I called her up, and I had forgotten that it was the middle of the night over in the British Isles. She answered with a hushed tone to her voice.

“Lars... darling... it is wonderful that you took the time to call me... but—“ She groaned in her throat.

“Would you like for me to give you a kiss goodnight over the phone?” I offered her.

“Mmmm... please.”

I puckered my lips for her and I pictured myself doing the real thing within time. To be laying next to her. To be by her side once the time came for us both. I knew that when I saw her for the first time on that tour date in England that I wanted her by side. I was in love with her the moment I saw her. I asked her out, and one thing led to another, and the next thing I knew, I was asking her to be an Ulrich.

“Sleep tight, darling,” she breathed to me.

“Good night, _min kaere_ ,” I told her. Once I hung up the phone, I doubled back into the kitchen for dinner, but at that point, it was well past seven o’clock, and yet I was starving. I made myself a full plate of European dinner, one of roast beef and vegetables complete with lots of gravy. I thought about Joey and his having pancakes in the middle of the night when I stayed with him. I made them just for him, too. The memory of him heading into the bathroom to barf them up still lingered within my mind.

We were both fucked up, and we both needed each other. We needed each other more than I needed James and Kirk, and the two of them were like my brothers. I stand corrected: they are my brothers. Losing Cliff was losing my brother, and to think they wanted to throw me out like that, right to the curb before either of us hit our prime, it made me nauseous.

I had finished my dinner and changed my clothes before I realized the time: a quarter to eleven at night. I have never liked going to bed with my belly absolutely bulging full given the fact it’s difficult to fall asleep, but I needed that warm feeling. I need to cuddle under the blanket with nothing more than the soft feeling inside me. I lay my head down on the pillow and closed my eyes.

I rest my hand on my stomach and I try to close my eyes, but I am wide awake. Wide awake and thinking out loud.

I think back to when I was a boy back home in Denmark and I would have my eyes on several girls at school, but I could never put my lips on one. “Girls mustn’t kiss other girls,” I was always told. But I am not a girl!

I roll over onto my back and the full feeling within me hovers upon me like a dead weight. Why did I eat so much.

And yet I understand now what Joey went through a few years back. I flash back on the sight of him there in his bed next to me, and I know that was the first real moment I believed the both of us would go in our sleep. I had slit my wrists and despite having cleaned my wounds, the pain seared up my arms and straight into my heart. And I know he had barely eaten anything, like a sick man, his belly full of unease and his head in need of rest. We both need love and nourishment, in terms of mind, body, and soul.

Soul. Of course. I open my eyes to face the cavernous darkness before me.

I am a simple signature away from being a married man and I can’t even do that. So far out of reach. I am alone and with no one to talk to. But then again, I wonder if Joey is awake.

No. No, no, no, no, no. I do not want to impose on him. He is probably sleeping, given he’s three hours ahead of me.

But I need peace of mind.

I raise myself up on my elbows and reach for the phone on the nightstand. I switch on the lamp and read the number on the piece of paper laying there before me.

I dial the number.

Two rings.

“Hey, it’s Joey Belladonna—” His voice is so refreshing to hear after not doing so for quite a while. “—I’m either singin or playin around with a band, so leave a message and I’ll try an’ get back to ya.”

After the beep.

“Hi, Joey—it’s Lars. I know, it’s late, but I am about to fall asleep here and I can’t stop thinking about...” I swallow and close my eyes. “...about you. I’m just wondering how you’re doing right about now. I miss hanging out with you. After the accident, things just... haven’t been the same with—with Metallica. But I hope we can do it again soon. Call me tomorrow please and thank you so much, Joey.” I swallow again and I have to stop myself from calling him “brother.” But my belly is full and I feel myself falling asleep.

I must have muttered it to him, but I shake my head and hang up. I rub my eyes and switch off the light.


	3. numbers and paws (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"stay away from the haunted heart.  
>  you swore to yourself that you'd make a new start,  
> just like the demon with the poison dart.  
> there's nothing left to see;  
> turn out the light."_  
> -"funeral song", sleater-kinney

I'm sitting on the bathroom floor and listening to the beep of the answering machine. Lars just called me in the middle of the night and I feel like I just had my ass kicked.

The memory of the bus accident is still fresh in my mind: he and I were alone together, and we're still alone together.

I glance down at my legs in all of their slenderness. I let my hands caress down the smooth skin: my fingers down along the inside of my thighs. They're so toned, still so toned from all the years of playing hockey. I'm getting a little slit in between them. Maybe that's a good sign. Maybe it's all in my head.

Maybe it's all in my head.

And maybe I can go back to that. I can return to hockey: I still have my jersey and I think my dad still has my mask in the spare room. I would have to search around for new skates, though. I was almost semi pro for a time there before I took the risk with music. Almost.

Almost isn't exactly there, though. I felt the music in my body and my soul.

I still do.

It's in me. Eating away at me. Eating away at me if I don't do something.

I bring my hands up to my stomach. I don't feel like eating at the moment—it's too late, anyway, and I'm afraid to step on that bathroom scale, too.

Numbers don't lie, Joseph. I'm going to lose all my money and get all washed up and fat in the mean time.

Maybe I should call him back.

But not right now, though—it's too late. I just want to crawl into bed and go to sleep for the rest of my life. I climb to my feet and trudge out of there, and double back to the living room to play that message again, mainly so the damned thing isn't beeping all night long but also because I want to hear Lars' Danish accent again before I fall asleep.

I sigh through my nose and run my fingers through my black curls as I play it again.

And then again.

He said something there at the end: I can't quite catch it, though. It's like he mumbled it, like he was drunk or falling asleep himself when he called me.

I frown at that little sound because I'm too exhausted to know what he meant by it. I sigh through my nose again and switch off the light. I grope my way back to my room and crawl into bed. The warmth of the blankets are everything to me right now, holding me close and tender as though it's my mom holding me. Right before I fall asleep, I make a note to call my mom to tell her what happened to me.

It feels like I had just fallen asleep when I wake up and it's morning: the gray light of the sun shines through my window and onto the wall above my bed. I don't think I even dreamed about anything, or at least I can't recall it. I just want to lay there forever, but I know I have to call Lars. I have to.

But I don't feel like it. My stomach feels hollow. My chest is heavy. My head is... elsewhere. I feel heavy and bloated, even though I barely ate anything yesterday.

But I'm thirsty, though. I've gotta take a piss, too. I still don't feel like eating, though—I'll drink a shitload of water and coffee before I eat anything. I don't think I can afford to.

Until again, my blankets.

I put on a shirt and comb my hair with my fingers. Today's the first day of the rest of my life, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

I've gotta see how much money I actually have with me: it's not much, but it's best to check on it, though. I've got my Chuck Taylors, the same ones from when I first joined Anthrax: they're clean and still pure black because I barely wore them following those first months. My stomach is aching me but it's the least of my problems at the moment.

I put my collar up before I head out of my place and stand on the porch for a moment.

I'm empty and hollow. I'm wispy and delicate; a complete shadow of a man.

Speaking of shadows, something catches my eye and I glance over to my right. I hesitate at the sight of her. All those tales of hearing about crossing paths with her type.

A break forms in the clouds which allows the light to shine down upon my neighborhood. Her black fur shines in the sun as though she has glitter embedded in the roots. Her golden eyes are pure—not a single speck or blemish within those irises. She sees me and stops. Not a blemish one on her fur.

It's worth a shot.

“Hey, kitty,” I say to her. She raises her tail at me and lets it form into a little hook like a candy cane. She's not wearing a collar, but I know she isn't feral, though. She strides up to me and rubs hard on my lower leg. I reach down to pet her.

“Hi—hi, you're sweet. I'm more of a dog kinda guy but I like you, though.”

She lets out this gentle purr at me and she looks upside down at me. She squints her eyes at me and her purr grows louder and louder.

“I wanna call you... Millie, if you don't mind.” I squat down so I'm closer to her. “I dunno why—you just feel like a Millie to me. Not Mildred—Millie.”

She lets out a soft meow at me.

“I don't have any food with me, though,” I tell her. I look right into her golden eyes.

“Tell you what—I'm gonna check my bank balance. If I've got enough, I'll see if I can get some cat food for you, okay?”

She purrs at me.

“Okay. I'll be right back. You stay here on my porch, okay?”

She continues to purr at me and I stand to my feet. Millie lays down on her side right in front of my door. I stride away from her and down the walkway: I reach the pavement and stop. I turn around for a look at her, still lounging there on my doorstep. Her golden eyes watch me, as if she's expecting me to go through with it.

I can't explain, but I got lucky with a black cat.


	4. deborah (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"we are problems that want to be solved;  
>  we are children that need to be loved.  
> we were willin', we came when you called;  
> but, man, you fooled us,  
> enough is enough."_  
> -"what about us", p!nk

I'm waking to the sound of the rain on the roof. The bed is warm, especially the parts all where my ass has been overnight. The space next to me feels smooth and cool—a little too smooth and cool underneath my hand. The bed sheet is soft and clean, softer than the blankets surrounding me.

I open my eyes and gaze up at the ceiling. I wish for her to be here next to me. There is nothing more I want at this moment than to have Debbie next to me there in bed. I notice something out of the corner of my eye; I lift my head for a look. She might be going through the door. Or maybe it's just part of my imagination talking to me and telling me to return to sleep. But either one gives me a feeling that all is about to go sideways soon enough.

I have a hankering to call her. Well, have breakfast first and then call her up to tell her good night. Wake up in the morning and tell my wife to be good night. An oxymoron if I ever heard one.

Oxymorons. Contradictions. A contradiction like myself. Always told to shut up. Always told to let James and Kirk do the thing with the guitars and be Mr. Li'l Drummer Boi, like how I should be.

My wrist itches. That blade is calling me. It's beckoning me. It wants me to sink itself into my skin again, to release me, to set me free.

I shake my head about.

No. No, no, no, no. I can't. I cannot. I will not. I shall not.

I take my arm out from underneath the covers for a look. The skin is bare and clean: the scar is still present. It is not nearly as prominent as the scar over my eye, but it's there. That scar I inflicted upon myself following Cliff's death.

I hold my arm to my chest and keep my eyes fixated on the ceiling overhead. I think about all that's happened the past three years since the accident.

James never got the opportunity to vent and grieve: I think back to when Frank and Charlie had to sit with him after we all got back together in the hotel room. The former told me he was inconsolable, an absolute trainwreck. I was glad I was with Joey at the time because I didn't, and still don't, want to see my brother in shambles like that.

Even after we came home and I returned to the studio with him and Kirk, I could sense it within him. It was something that he could not overcome with ease or with a swift amount of time as our record label imposed upon us to come to a decision for a new bass player for the follow up to _Puppets_.

I also wasn't expecting to be shown the door, either.

Shown the door. Thrown out on my ass and replaced by Paul, another brother but without the words to get the band off of the ground and into the stratosphere. Just another band in the backdrop, and I knew Anthrax would end up the same way, too, after ridding of Joey. I had no idea if Dave would be willing to make Megadeth the forefront of things, or if Kerry and Tom would do the same for Slayer. It's anyone's game at this point, especially with the amount of alienated kids who had found solace in all of our music.

I sigh through my nose. I hope Joey got my message. He was my pillar of strength after the accident and I know I was his pillar of strength after he was turned down in the British Isles. We're both fucked up—we need each other.

I sit up in my bed and recline back on my hands. My wrist continues to itch: like an itch right underneath the skin. A furious little tickle underneath the skin underneath my left thumb. I cradle my hand in my lap for another look at the skin. Nothing there, but it's driving me crazy.

I slide out from underneath the covers and make my way to the bathroom for a piss and a washing of that old scar tissue. I rub a little too hard on my skin with the pad of my thumb: I wish for Debbie to be there to plant a kiss there.

It's so itchy and now it aches from the pad of my thumb. I run warm water over it in hopes to soothe it. I accidentally turn on the hot water a little too high and it burns.

I turn on the cold water and I notice the skin is bright red. The sound of the rain on the roof, a sound that often put me to sleep and relaxed me as a young boy in Denmark, filled my ears into a deafening roar. A dense wall of noise that pushes me and pushes me to the brink.

I rub too hard again. Ouch!

I sink my thumbnail into the skin—I must have been like Wolverine because it hurts even more. The water isn't really helping, either. I switch off the faucet and rub my fingertips over the skin, but it only irritates it. The tendons in the tissue underneath the top layer of skin spell out the name “Deborah”, or so I think.

And then I realize I opened up that old wound again. I had done it inadvertently, but I had done it. I broke the skin by own doing again. Bleeding out onto the bare skin—it doesn't help that the skin is soaking wet with cold water. It's bleeding faster and faster, and yet... the itch is gone. That was what I needed. Just what I needed. To reopen that little bundle of trauma to relieve the agony underneath the skin. To cut myself to feel the release and relieve the itch I could not for the life of me scratch.

Oh. Oh. Oh, no. Oh, no.

No, no, no, no...

I turn on the water again to wash away the blood. Debbie can't know about this once she and I are together again. I'll just tell her that I got a papercut. A papercut that's deep and the size of my thumbnail.

No. No. No!


	5. little songbird (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"i'm peeling the skin off my face,  
>  'cause i really hate being safe.  
> the normals, they make me afraid;  
> the crazies, they make me feel sane."_  
> -"mad hatter", melanie martinez

The machine gives me that little piece of paper telling me how much money I have left. My stomach turns and my heart skips a couple of beats. I know it's not good as I take it out of the slot and turn it over.

Two hundred five dollars and seventy six cents. I breathe out through my mouth: more than what I believed, but it's still pushing it. I can just pay my rent and get something to eat, and get something for Millie to eat, too. As for what's left over, I have no idea. I might be scraping by until I get my last paycheck from the record label—that is, if it comes. And on top of this, I don't know when it'll come, either. Everything is an unknown from here on out as I tuck the paper into my coat pocket. The cold courtesy of the lake hits me right in the side of the head: I put my collar up to protect my neck and my ear.

I make my way down the sidewalk and around the corner to the market, and there's a little brown bird with a yellow plume of feathers on the underside of its tail. It's perched up on the tree branch closest to the front doors: once I'm underneath it, it opens its mouth and lets out a soft little melody. A songbird!

I stop in my tracks so I can pay that little bird some attention.

I'm a songbird myself, you could say. The bird lets out another rouse of song, and another; on the fourth time, it's a little hard to swallow. I know it's not from tilting my head back because I feel my chest aching a bit.

I have to make this quick.

Twenty bucks gets me a month's worth of groceries, but I have no idea how long Millie's going to be with me, either: I get her some of those little cans of cat food for the time being. When the last round of money comes, I'll see what goes from there.

Just enough to pay my rent at the end of the month. I walk home cradling a paper sack in my bags so I can't adjust the collar of my coat to protect from the biting cold. My hair does protect my ears; but my neck and the sides of my face are numb by the time I reach my front door. I set the sack down on the doorstep to unlock it. Once I open the door, I hear that little natural melody again.

I turn around to find that brown and yellow plumage in the tree outside of the front window. That little songbird followed me home. Millie's nowhere to be seen, but something tells me she'll be back. I hang my coat up next to the front door, and the second I do, a shiver runs up my spine.

I put all of my food away first and then I open one of the cans: I'm greeted by that meaty smell of ground chicken and fish. I don't have much of anything other than a little white dish I use for butter to serve it in. I scoop out some of the cat food with a spoon and spread it over the dish, and then I head outside to the porch.

In fact, there she is, stroking closer to me from the corner of the building with her tail raised up. Her black fur glimmers in the sunshine; I look up to see the songbird still in the tree. I notice a smidge of yellow on its chest. It might just be my eyes messing with me, but the mark resembles a heart. I return to Millie as she trots closer to me: she probably smells the fish.

“Hey, Millie,” I greet her like she's a person. “You want a li'l sump'n?”

I set down the dish on the corner of the porch and bring my arms closer to my body given it's chilly out here; I stay crouched down before her so she's comfortable with me. She slinks closer to me and the dish. I keep one hand on my knee and I extend my other hand.

“It's okay,” I assure her in a soft voice. “You hungry? Are you hungry?” Millie skulks closer to me and the dish: I watch her nostrils twitch as she brings her pick shaped dark nose closer to the cat food. She then squats down for a nibble.

I can hear a soft purr from her: I can really hear it with each nibble of the cat food. At one point, she peers up from her dish to look at me with those golden eyes.

The songbird lets out some of its song right then and she turns her head. Millie's watching that bird from the corner but she doesn't seem to be too intent on catching it, especially since I'm here with the goods for her.

My stomach is starting to ache from not eating a lot. I still need to call Lars, too.

But I watch her as she puts her mouth down to the cat food. I didn't give her the full can, but I can tell that it's enough for her. I stay crouched down until she's finished, and then I stand to my feet. She stands to all fours for a second, and then sits back down for a washing of her paw.

Aside from food, I don't know if she's had anything to drink, either.

“Stay here,” I tell her. I double back inside for a little dish of water for her; I come back and she's still sitting there, washing her paw and licking her chops. I set the dish for her and she glances down at it.

“Are you thirsty?” I ask her in a gentle voice. “You want some water?”

I hold out my hand for her and she strokes over to me to rub her head inside of my palm. She purrs so loud for me: her fur is soft and smooth. I pet the top of her head.

“Yeah—yeah, you like that, don't ya?” I ask her as I scratch her under her chin. She pinches her eyes shut for a moment and then she rubs on my shin: her purr is so loud! I can hear it over the wind and the songbird over in the tree. I drop one knee and she sets her soft paws on my thigh. She bumps her head on my poor stomach.

She then raises her head for a look at me with those yellow eyes.

Something tells me that she knows. The end of her tail twitches and takes the shape of a candy cane. She bows her head again and bumps my stomach again.

And then I realize what she's telling me.

“You want me to eat something, don't you?” I ask her. She gazes at me, still purring so loud.

“I got a month's worth, but I'm a little scared, though.”

Look at me, I'm talking to a black cat like she's a person.

“You want to come inside for a minute?” I offer her. “I don't have a cat box, but it'll get ya outta the cold, though.”

She gives me a soft meow before she backs off of me. As I stand to my feet, I feel my stomach hurt even more. It's past hungry and now in painful territory: I don't know if or when I'll be able to eat again. But she's urging me to do it, though. The songbird chirps again before flying away into the cold sky.

“Okay.” I sigh through my nose and let Millie into my place so she has a warm place to stay in for the time being.

Life is a gift, and the fact I'm here right now, even with the hole in my stomach, tells me everything I need to know.


	6. world's on fire (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"just who do you think you are?  
>  medical school don't make you god.  
> now i don't care what you've been taught;  
> just get me off this life support."_  
> -"life is killing me", type o negative

I can smell the smoke as it seeps through the crack in the window in. I do hope that there is no fire nearby my place. I need to breathe. I need to relax. I need my fiancee, my wife to be, my partner in crime, my everything—I also need my parents, too. Oh, shit, my parents!

I change the tape on the gauze given the night before it stayed on but it itched my skin like crazy. What the hell was I thinking. My wrist is absolutely aching me, even as I am putting some more of the disinfectant and that old patch of gauze back onto the wounds. And yet that smell is right under my nose. It's driving me nuts, about like how the wounds on my wrist is driving me nuts.

I adjust the tape on my skin and duck out of the bathroom. I run into the living room and I open the curtains. I see the glow of the fire off in the distance. That evil red glow, as red as the wounds on my wrist. I have no idea when it must have started, but it looks as though it had expanded a great deal when no one was looking.

And yet, at the same time, it looks as though it's too far from my home. I would have gotten a phone call from the fire department or something like that. However it is in fact terrifying to see for myself from my window: it's also terrifying to witness given that utterly rank and bitter stench of wood and shrubs burning and scorching off in the distance.

But it's getting late to me again: I already feel the fatigue coming down on me again.

And yet the fire is glowing off in the distance. That red angry glow near the hills is staring back at me. An itch on my wrist mirrored that red glow.

Mirroring. Mirrors. Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the most fucked up of them all.

I turn around and click on the little television in the corner of the room. I wait for a couple of commercials to pass before the news report comes back on.

Fifty five thousand acres already since it started at around five o'clock this afternoon, and yet it blew up once the sun went down.

The evacuation section has missed my place by about a mere hundred meters: everyone on the other side of the street from me has to leave. Indeed, I peer out the window again to find the houses across the way are completely dark. Everyone had left. Everyone had left and I am alone.

This still doesn't change the fact that the fire can grow overnight and I'm woken up by the haunting sound of the phone ringing.

And yet, I return to the television screen to find that it's a tiny part way contained. Okay. That makes me feel better... kind of.

I massage my injured wrist with the tips of my fingers and clutch it close to my chest. I breathe a sigh of nervous relief.

And then I remember—

I double back to the phone. I dial the number. It rings once. Twice.

“Mmm... hello?” he groans over the mouth piece.

“Hi, Joey. It's Lars.”

He clears his throat.

“Oh, hey,” he says in a breathy voice. “What's goin' on, man?”

“There's a huge fucking wildfire nearby here and I am alone.”

“Holy shit,” he clears his throat and I hear some rustling on his end. “Holy shit, are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah—but—you know.”

“Yer scared outta your wits.”

“I will admit it,” I confess to him.

“Well, fuck—I wish I could do something, though.” I glance down at my wrist again. It still itches, and itches, and itches... I take a seat on the recliner and I let out a low whistle.

“You gotta bounce out here, man,” I tell him, “—I need you out here.”

“Well, I don't really have much money, though,” he points out. “I just have money for groceries and rent and... that's really about it.”

“Well, fuck...”

I hear him groan inside of his throat again.

“Are you alright?” I ask him.

“Yeah, I'm just—I'm a li'l hungry.”

I blink several times and cock my head to the side: my hair sprawls down over my shoulder and my chest.

“Did you eat?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, lemme ask you sump'n...” he starts.

“Okay.”

“How's your wrist doin'?”

“Um.”

“I'll tell ya if I ate anything if only you tell me how wrist is doin'.”

I swallow; I look down at my wrist again and nibble on my bottom lip.

“How's your wrist doin'?” he repeats.

“Itches. Aches. How is your stomach?”

“Hollow. Also aches. Gauze?”

“Gauze. Do you feel nauseous?”

“Like... kinda... car sick,” he sputters. “How'd you do it?”

“My fingers.”

“Jesus.”

“And how did you do it?”

“Bought some food and not eating it for a while. Like I said, I'm not doin' too well monetarily wise.”

“I heard you got fired,” I recall.

“I heard you got fired, too,” he echoes to me.

It's silent in my room except for the low noise from the television and a soft purring on his end.

“Do I hear a cat?” I ask him.

“That's Millie,” he explains. “A li'l black cat who came to my doorstep. There was no way I was gonna let 'er sleep outside 'cause it's rainin' right now. She's—right here on my bed, right next to my knees.”

“Oh...” I breathe out. “I was about to go to bed myself. I am—missing my fiancee, too.”

“So, your girlfriend and this cat who's become... more or less my cat.”

I swallow again.

“We're both fucked up,” I tell him.

“Fucked up and surrounded by a world that's on fire, both good and bad,” he adds.

“I am flying you out here,” I tell him in a small voice, “as long as you don't drown in flood water.”

“As long as you don't burn up in a wildfire,” he retorts.

“I want you to sleep,” I tell him; I know it's quite late over there in New York.

“And I want you to sleep...” His speech is slurring a little bit.


	7. pane of glass (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"if you can play on the fiddle, how's about a British jig and reel?  
>  speaking king's english in quotation, as railhead towns feel the steel mills rust.  
> water froze in the generation; clear as winter ice.  
> this is your paradise."_  
> -"straight to hell", the clash

I wake up to the sound of Millie purring right next to my ear. I roll my head over to see her curled up on the bed itself, not the pillow, but she's laying there, all curled up like a cinnamon bun.

I have to make my way out to California but I'm afraid. I'm paranoid. There's the money I have... and then there's the rest of the money I don't know if or when it's coming.

I also don't know what to do about Millie, either.

My stomach is utterly killing me: it's like I got sucker punched there during a hockey game. It's hollow. It's painful. It's like the hollow inside of a tree, just eating away at me and sending me into primeval mode.

What the hell is wrong with me? I got food in the kitchen... if I don't eat it, it'll spoil. That's it. If I don't it, it'll go bad. Not because I have to feed my sorry ass: but because I don't want to throw the little money I have left over into a pile and torch it.

I lay my hand on top of the blanket, right above my stomach. It literally aches me to the point of making me feel sick. It feels so delicate and weak there.

I roll my head over again for a look at Millie again. Her eyes are pinched shut and yet her purr is unmistakable.

I roll over onto my left hip and I reach up to pet her head. She purrs even louder and her eyes open at me: she stretches out a paw at me. Those claws shoot out from their places: as sharp as razors.

“Hey, baby,” I whisper to her. “Millie—li'l Millie.” She yawns and shows me those pointy teeth and the inside of her mouth. She then opens her eyes even more and brings her gaze right at me. She stares at me for like a minute before she makes a noise that sounds like the precursor to a meow in her throat.

“What?” I ask her in a breathy voice. I hear the rain hammering down on the room overhead, but she's fixated on me. “What is it, babe?”

She then stands to all four paws and stretches her back—she looks like a cat at Halloween. She then stretches out both of her front paws at me and slinks over to my middle, and curls up next to me right there. She presses tight against my body, up against my stomach, and lays her head down on her paws. She's warm, so warm that it comforts me.

It's like she knows. She knows the pain I feel in my belly, in my heart, in my body... in everything. She's using the warmth of her body to soothe me.

I sigh through my nose and I reach down to pet her head again. She's still purring—quite loudly, I might add.

It's hard to believe I can be seen as beautiful or even so much as cute or handsome by someone else, another pair of eyes—be it from Lars or from his girlfriend for that matter. But this little kitty cat here, this four legged friend and my best friend at the moment, is helping me because I let her into my place and I gave her something to eat.

I pet the soft smooth black fur on her body some more and then I wonder if she's hungry herself.

I roll onto my back once again and this time I follow it with a literal roll out of my bed. I'm greeted by the cold in my room there on my bare legs. I can never sleep with the damn furnace on because I get too hot: so all too often when I wake up on these cold rainy mornings, it gets so cold in my room. In this whole place, actually.

A painful twitch hits me right in the side of my belly, right near my hip bone. I bow my head and bring my hands to waist to ease the pain.

I feel her fur on my back. I turn my head to look at Millie, right into those golden eyes. She knows.

I swallow and I feel a hard sensation inside of my throat.

“Hi, baby—c'mere,” I tell her; I lift my arm so she can rub on me some more. She sets her paws on my thigh and presses her head against my stomach. I pet her head and she tilts it back to show me that little cat mouth upturned in a smile and her little black nose. She then looks at me with that purr so loud and full in my ears.

“Want some breakfast?” I offer her, and she makes that little noise in her throat again, complete with a little rise of her head. “Okay, c'mon—I gotta get up, babe.”

And she moves her paws from my thigh so as to let me climb to my feet.

She follows me out of my room and into the kitchen—I still have one hand resting on my stomach to ease the feeling. But I use both hands to give her her food. She sits there near the entrance of the kitchen with her front paws together and her tail wrapped around her.

“Here, babe,” I tell her as I set the dish down in front of her, and she squats down to it.

I'm the bad guy. The bad dude and the mother fucker without a whim or a will. What the hell is wrong with me.

I need to check to see if that check came into my account. I need to get dressed anyway.

I stride out of the room and back into my room to get dressed and put on my boots given I know the rain has done a number outside.

Once I'm laced up and ready to put on my coat, she had scarfed up the entirety of the canned food I gave her. She licks her paw and rubs it over the top of her head.

“I'll be right back, okay?” I tell her and she looks up at me with those golden eyes gleaming at me. “I'll be back. I promise.”

She then returns to washing, which gives me the cue to leave.

There's a full on lake forming on the sidewalk as I make my way towards the street. I pull the collar up to my face but it's useless given the crown of my head is already soaking wet from the rain. My stomach hurts so bad that it's a miracle I can even walk.

I catch the sound of a couple up the block arguing. It doesn't help that the front door of their house is standing wide open and the woman is demanding that he close it because of the rain.

Ugh. I hope that's not me one day.

The door closes as soon as I reach the corner. I feel sick to my stomach, but I need to know if I got the money yet.

The front window from that house breaks open and a television comes flying out—I think back to the last time I partied with Anthrax, on New Year's Eve for Scott's birthday down in the City, and by some madness, Scott hurled a television out the hotel window.

But at least there the window was open: this thing broke the glass so much that shards sail in my direction. I dodge away and almost fall ass over teakettle into a mud puddle. But I catch myself and watch the man all but stumble out of his place and to his car. Poor guy looks like the marriage was taking its toll on him: he's all gray and out of shape.

I _really_ hope that's not me one day.

But he stops and gazes on at me.

“You alright, man?” he calls out to me.

“Yeah, just wasn't expectin' that,” I confess to him; even though I caught myself, I feel my flagging energy catching up with me.

“Tell me about it—I'm gettin' the hell outta here and from that crazy old bat.” I watch him climb into his car parked at the curb and speed away. Meanwhile, I'm left standing there with my knees quivering and feeling unsure if the woman is going to come out of that place and attack me, too.

My knees buckle and I stagger down onto the grass. The soft wet earth hugs my knees, but it almost feels like I'm dying. I'm going to return to the earth, the little Injun boy I am.

Something catches my eye. I look down to my right. That shard of broken glass jutting out from the ground. It's soaking wet from the lake effect rain, and yet I'm able to look at my own reflection.

I look at myself, at my own face, those brown eyes, that gaunt face looking pale from hunger—I'm twenty eight years old and yet I look as though I had been alive for over a thousand years. I should be as brown as a bean as my mom would say, and yet I look like I've seen a ghost. A young buck down on his luck. More than down on his luck. A slave to his own poor stomach and the fumes in his pocket.

Alive for a thousand years and yet... I also feel so young. A part of me still thinks I'm a teenager and I should be back over at my parents' house.

“Fuck it, man, I need sump'n to eat...”

A strand of hair falls onto my face. It's wet but it feels dry. Sure, my hair is coarse, but it has never been so dry before. I think back to when Lars was here and my hair was starting to dry out.

Oh dear God. Lars!

I pick myself and hobble back to my place. Millie's still in her place on the kitchen by the time I stagger inside and catch myself on the back of the couch. She looks up at me with her eyes wide and alert. I'm breathing heavy. I'm in pain.

“What do you think I should eat?” I ask her like she's a person. She sits there, that little pear shaped black cat silhouette on my kitchen floor. My knees are still quivering: my ankles feel like they're about to give out.

“Let's see, I'm shaking...” I wonder aloud. I keep my eyes locked on Millie as she continues to sit there. Millie. A few letters away from milk. I'm glad I didn't give her any of my milk in my fridge, come to think of it.

Wait a minute.

I think back to when I played hockey for a living: my old coach always told me that when I've got the shakes, I should drink a glass of milk. I stumble into the kitchen, past her, and pick out a cup from the cupboard. I pour myself one and drink it down in one fell swoop, and with both hands on either side of the cup's base.

I set it down on the counter and look over at her.

“Well, I feel better now,” I tell her, “still hungry, but I don't feel like I'm gonna puke, though.”

She gives me another round of purring, followed by a soft meow. I knit my eyebrows together.

“Hang on a second, you got water?” I crane my neck to that little water dish I let her have, and sure enough, she's got plenty of water. “Yeah, you do.”

She meows again, and she's looking at the cup on the counter.

“You want some?” I ask her. She sits there, purring.

“Yes?”

She doesn't reply.

“You want me to have more?”

And she meows at me. Again. She knows.

“Okay,” I tell her in a soft voice. “Okay, baby—I'll have more.”

I pour myself another cup full and I drink it more slowly: I reach halfway and I feel her against my legs.

I sink down to the opposite side of the floor with the cup still in one hand: I lean back against the cupboard door and she continues to rub on me and purr very loudly. At one point, she lays on her side and shows me the extra soft fur on her belly. I pet her there and she purrs even louder. She trusts me!

“Yeah, you're my friend right now, aren't you,” I say to her; I use my free hand for another swig from the cup. I pet her a little more on the belly and then she clambers to her feet almost out of the blue.

“What? What? What's wrong?” Her eyes are big and her pupils are like big black holes. Her tail and her ears are fully erect. “What is it?”

She then hurries out of there to check it out, and in turn leaves me alone there on the kitchen floor. I look on the other side, at the sight of those faded stains there underneath the knife drawer. Lars cut himself in here, right across from me. I brought him home with me; it only makes sense for him to return the favor.

I hope Lars can fly me out to California because I need to get away from here for a while. I need to get away from myself.


	8. pins and needles (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"as the cries start to penetrate still air,  
>  this day we celebrate, the wait now ends.  
> from four corners smoke plumes into a reddened sky,  
> in the face of lantern light, tonight, my destiny flies."_  
> -"fall children", afi

I can hardly sleep right at the moment. I have put a new strip of gauze upon my wrist and cleaned up the skin with a bit of soap and water, but that is the least of my troubles at the moment. That fire out there is raging in spite of the cool breeze flowing through the bathroom window across the hall. That fire that I have no idea will be spread closer to me so I will have to leave or not. That fire of which is burning despite the coolness of the Bay Area.

Cool and crisp.

An autumnal night here. Ripe for burning.

I am on pins and needles at the moment. I need to sleep... and I need to be on my toes in case the phone rings.

The rank smell of smoke is burning my eyes and my nose.

I had closed my window a little bit of the way so I can have some sort of air flow on my head, but even a little bit of the way open gives me a window to that smell.

It is because of that smell that I am still awake.

Awake at this hour.

To think all those kids out there near the fire having to leave their homes in the middle of the darkness. The darkness burning up around them into a sheer curtain of ashes. Ashes and embers burning onto my eyes and nose. Burning like the wounds on my wrist. Fiery red like the leaves on the trees about to fall all around us.

It is fall after all. Fall and everything is hitting the deck.

I promised to Joey to fly him out here. The poor man's a miser and a hick—I have to do something for him. A rich man giving to a poor man.

I'm a real fucking Robin Hood aren't I? With the wounds on my arms and everything.

He's like a little boy almost, given his innocence and his naivete. But the world needs his innocence. Those big brown eyes. That beautiful body. That astonishing voice.

The world needs him. I need to protect him, even with my broken skin and my torturous mind.

So I hope he eats before he falls asleep. And I hope he eats when he wakes up tomorrow. I hope he eats like how I hope those evacuated kids get something to eat for themselves in the morning.

And I hope I can eat when I wake up tomorrow.

That is, if I wake up tomorrow.

For all I know, this fire could come out this way and burn me up whilst I'm asleep.

I hope Joey's willing to be down in Los Angeles to meet with me, because I doubt he'll be willing to come to a place that's on fire. Los Angeles, the city of angels. The place where I met James and magic happened those years ago. It feels so long ago, and now it’s about to happen again. 

I need to do it and stat, and while I'm still awake, too.

I climb out of bed and head back into the front room. I've got the number to the airline there in the phone book.

I dial the number.

The smoke is making my throat scratchy but not that scratchy.

“One ticket from Syracuse to Los Angeles, please. Round trip. Last name: Belladonna. I shall be willing to pay, yes—okay. Yes, thank you. I shall tell him.”


	9. a dollar short (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"you almost always pick the best times  
>  to drop the worst lines.  
> you almost made me cry again this time,  
> another false alarm; red flashing lights.  
> well this time i'm not going to watch myself die."_  
> -"buried myself alive", the used

I'm out here in upstate New York where everything is moist and humid, and even with the lake effect making its way into the area almost every single night now, there's a whole lot of green up here. There's this big row of trees on the far edge of town that line the river as it's going into the lake that, I don't believe for a minute have ever shed their leaves more than twice in the furthest part of my memory bank. They're green all year round.

I talk about all of this because it feels so out of my range of belief that a place can be so barren and bone dry that saying the words “it's a madhouse” will start a fire out in California. If that were to happen here, the entirety of Lake Ontario would have to dry out, like something would have to suck up all of the water and then there better not be any Nor'easters or shit coming down from the Arctic, and even then it'd be impossible because there are rivers and lakes everywhere up here.

But I had my faith in Lars. I had faith that he would survive the fire out there and he needn't evacuate.

I put my long coat back on given I woke up that morning to dense fog and I'm still feeling it all sink into my head and shoulders. I still have a bit of a stagger to my step but it's better after those couple of glasses of milk and having Millie next to me. My hair is sprawled down over my face and all around the crown of my head. The skin on my face and the side of my neck is cold from the incoming winds. I'm moist and I'm raw, and I'm hungry, too.

Lars wants me to eat, but I can't until I found out what's going on over on this side. Lucky for me, I don't live too far away from the bank: if there's plenty in there, like if I got my last dispersement, I'll treat myself. But only I got the thing, though. If I didn't, I don't know what I'll do next.

I can feel myself wasting away a bit. My knees aren't buckling, but the lower part of my legs feel limp and spindly, like they're about ten feet high and they're lacking in all kinds of flesh. At one point, I stop at the corner and take a look down at myself. The wind presses my coat to my body and my thighs: I feel slight and small; it doesn't help that part of my coat clings to my hip as if it were actually exposed out in the open. I'm skin and bones again: it's only a matter of time before the moisture here becomes a moot point and the curls atop my head dry out like a dead tree out in California.

The light turns green and I cross the street: I catch sight of my faint shadow on the ground. Even as just a faint smudge of dark gray, it looks too thin.

First I was too heavy to love, now I'm too thin, and there's not much I can do about it at the moment.

I make my way to the little machine out front, the one that spits out a little piece of paper to show how much is in there. It's brand new tech so I'm just still trying to acquaint myself with it.

I ain't dumb, though. A swipe of a couple of buttons and I've got it in my hand.

I frown at the numbers there, and it doesn't help matters that the wind is picking up again. It looks like it came, but the result was underwhelming. Like the record label took a good cut out of it and as a result left me a dollar short.

Sons of bitches, I need to eat!

I raise my head and then step out of the way to let the little old lady use the machine herself. I also stop in place to realize what I heard inside my head just now.

I need to eat.

I heard my own voice say that to myself.

I swallow it down and tuck the paper into my coat pocket. I then double back to my place up the street. As I'm crossing the front lawn, I think back to that guy up the street. I can only wonder what life is like for Lars at the moment, that is without the fire involved.

I want to live and breathe, and find my way in this big world that's trying to kill me. Trying to kill me and yet telling me that I have to live. I have to live and give my voice to the music within me and within a rock and roll band at the mercy of the big world, too.

I make my way back inside of the warmth and the sight of Millie sitting in the hallway with her front paws together and her tail wrapped around her. So prim and proper!

“Hey, babe,” I say to her as I close the door behind me and walk over to her. Her face lights up at the sight of me. I crouch down next to her, albeit with my knees shaking, and pet her head, and she lets out a big purr at me. She closes her eyes in content and then she stands up to her feet for a rub on my legs. I may be a dollar short, but I've got this black cat with me for a little nugget of good luck.

A low beep from the front room catches my ear.

“Sounds like someone called,” I tell her in a soft voice. I stand to my feet and walk back to the front door to hang up my coat. I smooth down the hair on the back of my head when I feel her on my lower legs. I look down at her and she looks up at me with her eyes closed part of the way: I can still hear her purr in her throat.

“What'chu thinkin'?” I ask her. “Hm?”

She lets out a soft meow at me and follows it with a louder version of that purr. The machine beeps at me again and I slip past her to check it out for myself. I push the button.

“Hey, Joey—it's Lars. I bought you a plane ticket out to L.A. last night so you and I can hang out again. You should be getting it some time in the next few days—if not, you can drive down to Syracuse and go through it all to get it yourself. Don't worry about it, it's paid for, but in the meantime, take care of yourself and eat something. Talk to you soon—”

That's it. I look over at Millie who's still looking at me with those partially closed golden eyes.

“L.A., Millie,” I mutter aloud. I might as well use what money I have in my account to drive down to Syracuse and fly out there. The thing is, I don't know what to do with her, though. She and I have bonded the past couple of days, but then again, she isn't my cat. I just took her in because she saw me and needed something to eat, like me.

“Probably 'cause he doesn't want me to be exposed to that godawful smoke,” I say to her. She raises her head a little bit like she's going to meow at me but all I hear is a sliver of that full purr.

“Are you gonna be alright while I'm gone?” I ask her. Those golden eyes gazing back at me. I press my hands to my hips and she swishes her tail along the floor: I see it form the shape of a question mark behind her.

“What'chu thinkin'?” I repeat. She meows at me.

“Is that all?”

She meows again.

“Really?”

She meows again, and follows it up with a stroll into the kitchen.

“I just fed you,” I point out as she rubs her chin on the corner of the wall. She turns around to face me with those eyes, now bigger and brighter than before.

And that's when I feel the pain in my stomach. It's biting and stinging.

I can't take this. I hate this. Fuck this.

I'm using that little bit of money to get myself a bite at the place up the street from here. I put my coat back on and I turn to Millie, who's still there on the kitchen floor with her paws together and her tail wrapped around her.

“I'll be back, baby, okay?” I tell her as I crouch down next to her again. Another twinge of pain emerges in my stomach and I set my hand there. She gives me some more of that lush purr of hers; I use my other hand to pet her head.

“I'll be back. I promise. Get under the covers in my room.”

I stand to my feet and I double back outside to the cold. My hope is she'll curl up on my bed and get warm: she just has to.

My stomach is in agony by the time I reach the diner, but it's warm and inviting inside. I'm gonna feed my inner cat and get warm, fuck the money. Fuck it all straight to hell. I either freeze and starve or I make like those green trees near the river and nourish myself in spite of everything. It's not a hard choice.

I never had coffee so rich and warm. I never had toast so crispy and buttery. Raspberries and blueberries so fresh. Eggs so fresh! I don't care: I like to eat and I'm hungry.

I recall back to when Lars told me to rub my belly when I'm full, and I did just that after eating it all. I lean back in my seat and place both hands on my slender stomach: it's just me in there so I'm able to do it with both hands. Feeling all kinds of soft and sweet right now. I'm feeling warm and ready for a nap like a cat. Take a nap and then drive down to Syracuse to at the very least pick up that plane ticket.

I rest my chin inside of the palm of my hand for a moment to allow myself to digest a little more before I drink down the rest of my coffee.

And then I look at my bill.

Oh, damn. There goes my deposit.

In a strange way, it is more than worth it. And yet... there goes that last bit of pathetic money from Anthrax. Spent it to put a fuckload of food in my belly because fucking wow.

At least I'm able to walk on home and feel stronger and more like myself. But still. I'm once again a dollar short.

I reach my front step when I notice my front door is standing wide open. That's funny: I swore I locked it. But I guess I was too hung up on my own bullshit to even notice. I make my way back inside to ensure everything is in its right place.

Silence.

“Millie?” I look in the kitchen and right where I placed her food and her water dishes. Empty. Not in the hall, either. Or the bathroom. Or my room for that matter.

And it's not like there's much of anything for her to climb into and hide, either.

“Millie?” I stand in the doorway and glance about the walkway. I look over at the tree where I first saw her and the sun breaks out from behind the clouds. Everything is clear and crisp and I'm feeling warm.

But she's gone. She's gone and I don't know where she went.

I close my eyes and bow my head. She wasn't my cat, but she also was because it was like she knew. And now she's gone.

I got nothing more than to take a little nap and then bounce out to California to meet up with Lars.


	10. a bloody mess (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"call it superstition...  
>  followed and fell.  
> under the falling,  
> under the spell."_  
> -"bury me deep", the sisters of mercy

I hope Joey can forgive me.

I couldn't take another second of it.

I couldn't sleep.

I couldn't sit still.

I couldn't take it anymore.

It all got to me, more so than the actual bus accident.

The smoke. The feeling that I have to leave at any given moment.

Fear is our most primal emotion. The one that bonds us to one another.

The one that makes me see just how fucked up I am.

He and I, we're both fucked up. We're both lacerated and ravaged. We found each other in our own wounds.

My wounds. His stomach. My wrists. His fatigue. My scars. His chills and flyaway hair.

And yet—

I still found my way to the knife.

The knife in the kitchen.

The knife under my bed. The fact there even was a knife under my bed.

Forget Joey for a second, how am I going to explain this to Debbie when she comes here? That her husband to be is inflicting wounds upon himself like a fucking voodoo doll?

I'm a dead man. I'm a dead man.

Out, damned spot! Out! Out out out!

...is what one might expect to hear from me.

But no.

There's more than a spot. A lot more than a spot. There are many spots.

It's a bloodbath. There's blood everywhere on the floor, on the counters, in the sink.

Dear God, what have I done. The kitchen is a mess. A bloody mess. An abhorrent ghastly mess, brought on by my own hand.

Moreover, I cannot leave my house like this. This is too much. This is just too much.

I fucked up so bad that not even a fucking shower will wash away the blood from my hands, or my clothes for that matter.

I am staggering out of the kitchen. I need to wash. I need to wash the kitchen, but for the time being I must wash myself!

Blood everywhere. Blood on my hands. Blood up my arms. Blood... in my eyes?

Blood... fucking... everywhere. It's everywhere. It's on the floor. On the walls. In my eyes! It's just—so much blood for such a tiny little slit.

No wait. There was more than one slit. I went higher. Higher and deeper than ever.

How am I still alive? How am I still breathing.

But I hope Joey can get here to California soon. I need to tell him the truth as I am letting the warm water wash away the extraneous blood from my arms and my thighs—apparently some got in my hair.

Fuck. Fuck me. Oh, God, Joey, please forgive me.


	11. in the pines (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"erupt again ignore the pill,  
>  and i won't let it show.  
> sacrifice the tortures;  
> orchestral tear cash flow.."_  
> -"emotion sickness", silverchair

If there was any compliment to give to Millie prior to my leaving, it was that I need not have someone look after her while I made my way out to California. I packed up only a few things before I left town and headed down to Syracuse to pick up that ticket and board the plane. I had the money in my pocket and those pristine Chucks still on my feet as I drove down to the large donut that was the freeway surrounding Syracuse.

If someone asked me on a scale of one to only rode in plane all of twice, discounting the times I had to fly while on tour, as to how much of a hick I was, I would say they were right.

In the two times I flew in a plane on my own time, I had the airline food both times. I made a promise to not eat anything they gave me the next time I did it on my own time because it was worse than not eating.

I put my overnight bag in the compartment over my head and I took my seat. Within time, we lifted off and headed out west towards Los Angeles; we were going to stop over in Kansas City first, though.

I peered out my window at the ground down below. Several thousand feet below me. I feel so high.

And by high, I didn't mean by the way in which flying on the plane felt.

The trees down below all resembled to this vast dark lake. I made sight of Finger Lakes: cold and glassy with the incoming snows. I lifted my gaze to the Great Lakes off in the distance.

Lakes upon lakes, which were in turn stacked upon more lakes.

Cold and wet: how I felt within.

I took a cup of coffee but that was about it. I wasn't going to risk eating something awful and ruining the whole thing.

I folded my one arm across the stomach when I felt the pain of being so hungry rise up within me. It was like being carsick, and it didn't help matters given the stifling warmth of the cabin and whatnot, either. I closed my eyes to try and ease the feeling; it helped somewhat until we hit some turbulence. I felt sick to my stomach, like I was about to barf, but there was nothing to barf up in there.

I felt so uneasy and every time we hit even a little bit of turbulence, it only made my stomach even more uneasy.

Granted, we reached Kansas City within no time but it felt like a hundred years before we touched down on the runway. I couldn't hardly move without feeling a wave of nausea sweep over me. I needed some relief. Maybe a drink of water, something, anything, it didn't matter to me as long as it kept me away from that godawful airline food. I had no idea if Lars had a fair amount of money to spend on something to eat for the both of us. I needed to hold onto that little bit of money for a little while longer.

I stood there at the terminal with my bag over my back and I wondered what would happen next.

I kept my hand to my stomach to keep things at ease within there. I hated the feeling.

Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

People were wary of the funky looking gentleman with the sunken face and the stringy threadbare curls atop his head.

Wait a minute.

I patted the top of my head: the roots felt bone dry but clean. My back and shoulders ached.

I really hoped Lars was willing to get me something to eat. If he could give me something to eat, maybe I could do something for him.

I walked past one of those little soap shops, one of those places with everything from make up to nice soaps to body paint. Something about the body paint...

I thought about when Lars cut himself in my kitchen with one of the knives in the drawer.

And just by my own luck, one little packet of it was for cheap-o. Penny pinching or not, I did something for Lars, even with my starving belly. I stepped onto the plane to Los Angeles.

Walking around helped out a bit, but I still had the sickly feeling in my stomach. I kept my hand there the whole rest of the flight over the Rocky Mountains.

We reached California within time and I was quick to get off.

But I could feel it within me, and I could feel it within even in the warmth of the California sun: I was relapsing.

I hadn't eaten anything in the duration of the flight. I felt withered and waned, like I was wasting away again. Wasting away even before I spotted Lars over on the other side of the parking lot awaiting me.

Be careful what you wish for.


	12. little doll (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"he's more than a man, and this is more than love.  
>  the reason that the sky is blue, the clouds are rolling in;  
> because i'm gone again, and to him i just can't be true."_  
> -"unfaithful", rihanna

The bandage itches my wrist. I knew I should have put on the gauze a bit more smoothly prior to leaving the house, but I had not much other choice so to speak given I had left with haste. I had bought myself the earliest ticket from the Bay Area down to Los Angeles. I honestly could not have left that airport faster: as I was leaving, I watched the column of smoke billow up from the fire near the coast.

I had received word that they had contained it somewhat over the night, but I still had my fear. I peered across the aisle to the young lady seated there next to the window. She had this thick head of jet black hair down past to her shoulders and a white stripe on the side facing me, and she wore these pink cat eye glasses upon her face. I usually veered for blondes myself, hence Debbie herself but I was intrigued by her given the little doll she was crafting right there in her seat. The way in which her fingers moved about fascinated me.

This little paper doll with a white dress and a veil atop its head. A bride.

It was tissue paper. All of it. She handled it as though it were incredibly delicate surgery. She paid no attention to me, but I was in fact enthralled by her. She patched the bodice of the dress on top of the doll's chest with the pad of her index finger and then twined it all around that little body.

I hate to say it but I was beginning to feel the cold spread underneath the soles of my feet right then.

I was falling in love with this craftswoman right across the aisle from me. I was sure it was love. It felt like love, or perhaps I was in love with the movement of her fingers upon the tissue paper. But I had that feeling inside of me.

My heart pounded as she turned the doll over to better examine the skirt and the delicate legs. So delicate and ethereal was this little doll. I wanted to take in her magic, to taste it, to sense it, to feel it upon my tongue, to breathe it in and experience it for myself.

I have nothing left to prove, that is to prove to myself and to the ones I had befriended in the past. And that included Joey.

But I wanted to be closer to her. I wanted those fingers to touch me instead. I wanted to kiss those hands as they crafted little paper dolls. Little paper dolls of me and her, whatever her name was. And yet, I found myself reticent. I wanted to leave her be. The whole “you can look, but you can't touch” shtick. For all I knew, she belonged to someone else, and I was willing to be the other man for her.

At one point, prior to landing, she held up the doll and beheld it before the light of the window. The pure light from the sun outside shone onto the airy dress and the veil atop her head. To think Debbie was to look like that rather soon, and yet I began to question it for myself.

I had no idea if I wanted to be tied down just yet at that point, especially when she gave her hair a toss back and showed me the smooth skin upon her neck. I hope Debbie would understand that I needed to step away for a moment. There was a sinking sensation in my chest upon thinking that, upon thinking I should take a break from my fiancee for a while. But it was truth.

I am more than willing to be unfaithful, and given that the case, I need not be willing to find myself next to the first woman. I hate that I was willing to be unfaithful, too.

However I need to stop lying to myself. It was how I managed to cut myself once again after all. To cut is to feel pain. To feel pain is to bury the pain already felt. To bury the pain is to lie.

The plane touched down in Los Angeles, where the last remnants of fog held onto the rim of the valley like the salt on a margarita glass. I was quick to leave the plane and make my way onto the terminal.

Where is he... I know that head of jet black curls... they kind of remind me of Kirk's curls a bit, but Joey's are much more pronounced and much fuller given they sit atop his head. They're almost like a crown. A crown of thorns.

There he is. I hope this goes well. I hope I can explain my new wounds to him well.


	13. welcome to hollywood (joey’s point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“step right up and listen please,  
>  you’re gonna get it with the greatest of ease.  
> everybody gather round all aboard the underground;  
> you’ve got to get in before you get out!”_  
> -“subway to venus”, red hot chili peppers

The sun shines down on my face and my head. The smell of the salt from the ocean hangs over me like it’s a butcher block. Salted fresh meat ready to slice, but i don’t believe for one second that the meat on my bones is enough to feed a single person much less a whole entire neighborhood of Los Angeles.

Lars is right next to me, and he looks as though he has seen hell on earth. I can only imagine where that fire was in proximity to his house. We have made our way outside to the gray fog as it’s burning away from the midday sun—

Okay, I’ll stop waxing poetic now, as if I even know how to do such a thing in the first place. California is precious to me, much like how New York will always be precious to me. Coast to coast, that’s what I think about.

I’ll say this, too: the amount of gauze on his wrist at the moment is something to write home about. There’s also a little dark blood stain on the thigh of his jeans that’s in the shape of the freeway surrounding Syracuse.

He’s also looking at me with some serious intent.

My stomach aches and my body feels as though it’s about to collapse right on the sidewalk. I feel my knees quiver and shake about. I miss the comfort of my bed and the softness of Millie right next to me. I watch him adjust the gauze on his wrist and then he turns to me with his eyes squinted from the hazy afternoon sun.

“Home sweet home,” I say to him.

“For me, for sure,” he replies with a sly smirk upon his face. And then he turns serious again.

“I want to give you something to eat.”

“Me?” I ask him, stunned.

“Yes.” He clears his throat and shakes his wrist.

“You must eat, Joey,” he encourages me in a gentle but firm tone. “You look gaunt—emaciated, even. Surely you must be starving to death at the moment.”

My stomach twists and aches some more within me. I still have the resistance inside me, to stop myself from eating because of everything that’s happened so far. It aches me so much that it almost feels like I’m carsick. But I’m here in California—I need to get away from myself for a little while.

He clutches his wrist and grimaces at the feeling.

“When my parents and I first moved here from Denmark, one place we went to for lunch often, down in Hollywood.”

“So you wanna take me down to Hollywood,” I smirk at him.

“We will take the one thing that you and I both know more than anything and the one thing that almost killed me.”

“Pretty daring of you, Mr. Lars,” I tease him.

“Everyone knows that to heal means to face it straight on.”

He leads me to the curb, where we’re soon met by a big lumbering blue transit bus. Lucky for me, Lars is kind enough to pay the little fare for the both of us, and we take the first couple of plush dark blue seats near the front, right behind the driver. I’m nestled down next to the window and he’s pressed right next to me. He’s silent for a moment and then he turns to me with a grave look on his face.

“I have no idea if I will even have a house,” he confesses to me, “or a girlfriend.”

“I don’t know if I’ll even have a place to live, either,” I say to him, “or money, for that matter.”

“Once again, you and I are both fucked up.”

“Fucked up and in need of each other’s company—“

My stomach lets out this low guttural rumble that sends a sharp pain down my belly. I press my hands there to comfort it, but it’s useless. He nibbles on his bottom lip.

“Yeah, you need something to eat,” he declares.

“Lars, you could be cleaned out today,” I point out.

“Yes, but you need it more than I do. I’m getting you so much food when we’re there—and I will force it down your gullet if I must.”

The bus doors squeak shut next to us and we begin to roll forward.

“Force feed me, Lars?”

“Yes! I will make you eat the whole restaurant if push comes to shove. Absolutely fill that poor malnourished belly of yours.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have to do that if ya mind tellin’ me what you did to your wrist again.”

“I shall tell you over lunch.”

“And make me lose my appetite? I don’t think so.”

“You won’t, I promise.”

“Unless it’s gruesome.”

“It was—kind of bloody.”

“Kinda?”

“Kind of, yes.”

“Care explaining to me the blood on your pants then?”

“...nosebleed.”

“Nosebleed?” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Lars.”

Another sharp shot of pain shoots across my belly again and it forces me to bring my knees up to my chest. I bow my head and grimace from the awful feeling.

“Shit, man, you really are in dire straits now...” His voice trails off; I lift my head to see him adjusting the gauze yet again.

“And so are you,” I groan out.

“Okay. You want me to tell you the truth?”

“Please.”

He sighs through his nose and leans in closer to me so I can hear him over the roar of the bus.

“I couldn’t take it anymore,” he says in a low voice.

“You couldn’t take it anymore? Couldn’t take what?”

“Fear. The fear of waking up burnt to a crisp. The fear of not being able to say goodbye to Debbie.”

“So you—“

He nods before I can finish.

“Joey, it was an utter bloodbath. That little bloodstain on my pants here is just a little pinhead sized bit of the carnage. So much blood for such a small little slit...” He shakes his head.

“You know there was a cat that stayed with me for a little bit,” I start without moving out of the position.

“What’d you name her?” He knits his eyebrows together.

“Millie. And it was funny—it was like she knew.”

“She knew what?”

“That I’m in dire straits and a slave to my own stomach.”

“She wanted you to live on, Joey. She wanted you to eat and then come here with me.”

“What’s even weirder is she left literally right before I left for the airplane,” I recall. “Again, it’s was like she knew.”

“I cut and bleed to feel away the fear, and you starve and pinch to feel away the fear, too. My fiancée is not here and yet a four legged friend knew more about you in a couple of days. I am in pain and you are drying in the cold California sun—“ He stops dead in his tracks.

“Wha?”

“Look over there.” He gestures out the bus window next to me. I turn my head to behold the sight of the Hollywood sign emerging from behind the hillside. We’re going to be right underneath it!

“I am going to nurse you and take care of you today,” he tells me, “and you are going to let loose for a while. We need this, Joey. You and me both. What do you say?”

He juts out his pinky finger for me. We’re here for a reason, and I don’t want to feel like this. I want to feel rich and full, even if it’s just for a single day. One more show before my stomach collapses into itself and my skin and hair dry out with the Santa Ana winds, and one more show before his blood spills on the valley floor and he, too, withers and dries up before he falls into the ocean. I hook my pinky around his.

“Welcome to Hollywood,” he says.

“Welcome to Hollywood,” I repeat it.


	14. welcome to hollywood (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"let me open up the discussion with  
>  i'm not impressed with any motherfucking word i say.  
> see i lied that i cried when he came inside,  
> and now i'm burning a highway hades."_  
> -"kill me", the pretty reckless

I meant it when I said I would cram the entire restaurant down Joey's throat. The poor man is practically quivering and quaking as we're walking away from the bus stop. He's breathing heavy and he's walking at quite the slow pace. He lags behind me for a time before he calls out to me.

“Lars—Lars, stop—shit.”

I turn around once I reach the street corner and I watch him shuffle along the sidewalk and breathe heavy from the movement. It is not a very cold day here in Los Angeles, in fact I figured it would be rather nice here and thus I took a gamble and left my jacket at home, but he's wearing that long black peacoat as if it's a snowstorm back home in upstate New York. He approaches me with his otherwise olive face washed out with intense hunger; he winces from the pain within him.

“Come on, we're nearly there,” I tell him.

“Lars—you don't have to do this,” he insists as we cross the street to reach the restaurant.

“Joey, you look like you are about to pass out—I am getting you a big fat bowl of pasta and all of the bread.”

“No—no—oh, seriously, dude?”

“What?” I look at him with an eyebrow raised.

“You're gettin' me pasta?”

“Yes. Because it's filling and it'll get you moving better, too. Why, d'you think I would get you that because you're Italian?”

“Kinda,” he confesses.

“Oh, come off it, Joey, man! That's the hunger digging at your brain now—it's only a matter of time before you start making weird noises with your tongue.”

I all but drag him into the first table by the smoky front window: I look out there to see the Hollywood sign looming up on the hill right next to us. He lets out a low whistle as he leans back in the spindly chair. He then looks at me with his eyes barely open with exhaustion. A wave of heat washes over me from walking under the California sun.

“Will you at least take your coat off?” I suggest to him. “I am getting hot just looking at you.”

“I'm freezin', though,” he replies as he sets his hands on top of the table before him.

“Once you get some food in your stomach, you will feel better.”

He nibbles on his bottom lip at me, to which I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Don't test me, Joey,” I warn him.

“I wasn't.”

“You are. I meant it when I said I will utterly stuff you full. I will stuff you like a turkey.”

“You wouldn't,” he says, never changing his expression.

“Oh, I would. If I topple James from behind him, I can get you down on the floor and shove one of these bread sticks coming right into your mouth.”

The waitress sets the basket of bread sticks on the table right next to us. I thank her as she walks away. The bread is fresh, straight out of the oven, and lightly kissed with some butter.

“Have one,” I encourage him.

“I'll wait 'til the pasta comes.”

“Joey.”

“What?”

“Have some bread. Coat your stomach. Have at it.”

“I'll have at it when you do.”

I reach for a stick and break off the top side of it. I hold the fluffy white side towards my nose for a whiff. Fresh and crisp, and perfect. I have my eyes on him, especially as his heaving chest and the look of hunger in his eyes. I am paying for all of this so I don't understand his point. And then he shakes his head.

“I can't,” he confesses in a low voice.

“Joey, I will personally shove this bread stick down your throat if you don't stop it with the fucking griping.”

“You keep saying that you're gonna that but—” I reach across the table and cram the better part of the stick right into his mouth. I keep my hand there as I stand to my feet. His mouth is stuffed with the bread, and then I reach to my right for another stick.

“No, God, Lars—no, don't!” he pleads, but then I shove it right in next to the first piece. Amazing he can hold that much bread in that mouth of his.

“Well, at least lemme chew the first one first!” he says through his mouthful. He brings a hand to his mouth for a bit of protection while he's digesting. I turn around to see the waitress returning to us.

“It's alright, it's alright,” I assure her, “he was just having a moment, but it's okay, though. I promise you.”

She gives me a thumbs up and a smile before she walks away. I return to Joey as he swallows that huge wad of bread.

“Jesus fuck, you're gonna make me choke—” He then lets his tongue hang out from his mouth like a dog.

“Eat some more,” I order him in a low voice, to which he scowls at me. “Eat some more or I'm going to do it again.”

He huffs and reaches for another bread stick.

“Gonna need some water here,” he calls out in the most New York accent I ever heard.

All through our stay there in the restaurant, I encourage him to eat more, but I also encourage him to take it easy, too. I am the one footing the bill, and thus it only makes sense. I make sure he gets seconds and refill of his coffee and his water glass. I, on the other hand, am relishing in this chance to have lemon chicken before my fiancee shows up at my door, that is if she shows up at my door. A moment here in Hollywood to forget her, the fire, and ultimately the wounds on my wrist. All I wanted was something to take my mind off it all.

At one point, I notice he has barely touched his second cup of coffee.

“Drink your coffee,” I tell him.

“I'm drinking, I'm drinking,” he scoffs as he picks up the mug by the top rim. “Mr. Bossy.”

“Mr. Sassy,” I retort back to him.

“Oh, no, don't beckon Mr. Sassy,” he warns me as he brings the mug to his lips and raises a single eyebrow at me. “You beckon Mr. Sassy, there ain't no goin' back.”

I chuckle at him. I pick up a bite of chicken up: pure white on the inside with perfection and a delicate smidge of black and yellow on the outside. He's getting all those carbs and good fats in him: he needs a bit of protein.

“Here, eat this.”

“No.”

“No is not an acceptable answer today, Joey. You need to eat. I will sit here and hand feed you every food group on the fucking pyramid until you regain your fucking strength.”

He hesitates with his eyes wide at me. “You'll hand feed me cupcakes?”

“Yes, I will hand feed you a dozen cupcakes and then some until that poor belly of yours swells up like a balloon. Now eat this piece of chicken.”

He nibbles on his bottom lip and then he reaches for my fork, and sticks the piece into his mouth. He pauses there for a second and then he raises his eyebrows at me.

“Oh, wow, that's good,” he says with his mouth full, and then he hands the fork back to me.

My pile of saffron rice is quite to the point of perfection itself.

I eat up everything on my plate, and apparently he does, too. Even with the seconds. There is a part of me that wants him to have thirds and even more, but I need to watch my money, too. He leans back in his chair and then undoes the buttons on his peacoat. Even from where I'm seated, I can see that his slender stomach is firm and very full. The color has returned to his face, too.

I did well. And the fact he took the wounds on my wrist in stride tells me he did well, too.

“Wanna take a walk down on the beach?” I offer him as I make a signing gesture to the waitress on the other side of the room.

“Sure. As long as I don't fall ass over teakettle from all this.” He fetches up a sigh and rests a hand on his stomach. “Damn.”

“Do that more and the moisture will return to the roots of your hair soon enough.”


	15. at land's end (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"chloe don't know better.  
>  chloe's just like me, only beautiful.  
> a couple of years of difference,  
> but those lessons never learned."_  
> -"chloe dancer/crown of thorns", mother love bone

I'm surprised I can even so much as walk about given how much I had eaten back there. I have one hand on my stomach, which is as warm as the California sun over us. I'm amazed Lars hasn't caught me because I lost my balance twice. I feel like rolling—just rolling down the street towards the beach, or wherever Lars wants to take me next. He does however catch me as we're approaching the corner.

“Ate too much?” he asks me with a li'l twinkle in his eye.

“Nah.”

“You're walking around as if you're drunk, though.”

“There'll be none of that, though,” I scoff at him; I finally strip off my coat and toss it over my shoulder. “So where to next?”

“I say we go down to the beach,” he suggests. “We shall have to hitch a ride with the next bus, though.”

“As long as I don't have to walk very far, I'll be fine,” I tell him. I keep one hand on my stomach as we're walking back to the bus stop. According to him, it'll be another ten minutes before the bus shows up, which I know for a fact won't be enough for me to digest all of this food. But he's taking me to the beach: I can't turn that down for anything.

I lean against the side of the bench and let my stomach rest for a little bit.

He insists that I have a seat next to him, but I know it won't be long. I look at the gauze on his wrists and I think back to when he cut himself in my kitchen. With one of my good knives. I could only imagine what he had used back at his place to cut himself again.

“It was an utter bloodbath,” he starts again. “I mean, everything was bloody.”

“Did you use like a saw or something?” I ask him.

“No, just a really big knife.”

“Well, I've been pinching pennies like crazy lately. It's either spend it on groceries or spend it on rent.”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. But—” I think about Millie and how it seemed like she knew. “—something kept me going, though.”

“And something kept me going, too,” Lars echoed, and with that, the bus lumbers up in front of me. We board up and it takes us all the down to Santa Monica and the pier down there. We drive through Beverly Hills where all the rich people live and work and play at, and I spot signs to the pier within time. I gaze out the window at the sight of the Los Angeles skyline, which makes me think of the Syracuse and New York City skylines. I wonder how it's doing back home as the sight of that cold dark blue water emerges before us.

We arrive at the pier in no time: once we come to a stop, I toss my coat over my shoulder again. He steps off the bus first and onto those weathered dark wooden planks, and I follow up right behind him. We're both greeted by the seagulls and the wall of noise that's the tide and the smell of salt once we're away from the bus stop. Lars turns to me with his eyes squinted in the wake of the afternoon sun.

“We're not too far from Ventura, so we can hitch a ride up there if we must,” he tells me over the roar of the ocean.

“Good, 'cause that seems pretty far,” I reply back with a little pat of my belly.

“Wanna just chill first?” he suggests to me with a gesture over to the nearest bench on the wooden boardwalk.

“No, no, it's okay.” We walk a little bit when I feel that sharp pain in my side. The only times I get those was whenever I ate a ton and then went outside to play a hard round of hockey in the yard. Otherwise, I hadn't felt that pain in forever and a day. I linger behind Lars and he turns to look at me.

“Joey, I will carry you if I must,” he says to me.

“Let's just—just chill out here—for a second. Jesus...”

“I really will carry you,” he says.

“Would you?” I ask him.

“For real. I will pick you up and carry you right now.”

I hold still as he stoops down and scoops me up under my thighs, and holds me close to his chest. I can feel my ass is close to the ground but he adjusts me so I'm closer to him. I lift my head from his chest so I can breathe. He's struggling, I can tell.

“You're sure this isn't too hard on you, right?” I ask him in a broken voice.

“You're heavier than I thought, but—”

He then winces and almost drops me right on the planks. I catch myself with the back of my foot and one hand.

“Ouch! Ow ow ow ow ow ow—damn it!” I clamber out of his grip and straighten myself into a crouching position. The pain on his face is obvious. The way he's clutching his wrist is even more obvious.

“What did you do to yourself?” I ask him in a low voice. He lifts his head to me and the pain riddles his eyes.

“I'm afraid, Joey,” he confesses to me. “That's why I cut. I am afraid. Absolutely scared to death.”

“Of what?”

He doesn't answer. Instead he looks down to his wrists.

“Of what, Lars?” I repeat myself; I examine the gauze covering his skin. “What're you so afraid of?”

“Getting married and losing everything,” he says. “Now, may I ask—what are you so afraid of?”

“Losing everything and feeling like I'm not worth anything,” I reply back to him. “That's why I barely eat. I don't feel worthy of anything.”

“But you are here with me,” he tells me, “and I am here with you. I know I am worthy because of you. You should feel the same. I mean, the fact I struggled to pick you up should tell you that you are worthy of something. I cared enough to do that and I cared enough to buy you lunch and let you fill your belly until it's absolutely full.”

“And I don't wanna see you in pain,” I tell him, “especially when it's self inflicted. The fact you got a girl in your life means you're worthy of it, too.”

He shows me a thoughtful smile, and then he lifts his gaze to the hazy sun behind us. I turn my head to look out of the pier. Behind us, I can make out the fain silhouette of Catalina Island and another one of the islands out there. Beyond that is nothing but miles upon miles of cold ocean glimmering in the sun.

“We are at land's end, Joey,” he tells me.

“We are at land's end, aren't we?” I say back to him with a smirk on my face. “Not another piece of soil for thousands of miles.”

“Burn up in the sun and drown in the ocean,” he says, “that is the both of us.”


	16. beautiful tragedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"home in the valley, home in the city.  
>  home isn't pretty, ain't no home for me.  
> home in the darkness, home on the highway;  
> home isn't my way, home i'll never be."_  
> -"burnin' for you", shiny toy guns  
> (originally done by blue oyster cult)

It's nearly sundown by the time Joey and Lars arrive in Ventura on the next bus ride: the sun itself hangs low over the horizon, but not low enough to paint the sky all manner of colors. It's another few hours before the next couple of rides come to take them back to Hollywood and ultimately the airport, but the two of them would rather relish their time there on the beach.

It's a warm day, such that Joey has all but tied his coat around his waist. His stomach is still rather heavy after all of the lunch he had eaten, and Lars is still willing to buy him dinner there in Ventura. It almost feels as though Lars is spoiling him, spoiling him despite the awful pain he feels on his end.

At one point, walking past a glass window outside a leather shop, Joey peers into his own reflection. His own two brown eyes and his gaunt but sun kissed face gazing back at him. Very bare and yet very handsome—beautiful even, and yet in so much pain. Lars takes a look at himself as well.

Both men think back to that morning in Joey's bathroom, the both of them staring at their own reflection and seeing the beauty in themselves. This time, with the late afternoon sun bathing down on them, they could see the pain in their eyes and their faces. Lars leads the way down to the crosswalk; beyond that is a brick wall separating the beach from the street. The street itself is deserted.

Joey fetches up a sigh and keeps one hand near his stomach as they cross the pavement. The wall of white noise covers them like a blanket. The waters are bright and sparkling with the last rays of sunlight. A long stone jetty shoots out from the coast line up ahead, and at the base of that is a pile of large smooth boulders.

They approach the edge of the sand when that sharp pain emerges in Joey's side again. Lars stretches ahead, but Joey sighs again and almost falls to his knees. It's not until Lars is almost twenty feet ahead when he turns around to find Joey recursing back to a large rock near the jetty.

He sinks down to the warm dry sand with his back to the rock. There's something in his coat pocket, something he forgot was there with him. He unties the sleeves of his coat and lays it over his lap. As Lars approaches him with a look of concern on his round face, Joey takes out that small paint set he had gotten back home in New York.

“Forgot I brought this with me,” he confesses to him over the roar of the ocean. Lars kneels down before him.

“What is it?”

“Body paint. I'll give you some markings and you do it to me.”

“Beautifully ugly—that's the both of us,” Lars replies with a small but still concerned smile. Joey peels off his shirt and lays it on top of his coat, and then he lays both on the sand next to him. Lars removes his shirt to reveal his snowy white Danish skin. They both use their fingers to paint on the scarlet and bright green markings on each other's bare skin.

Lars has the gentle touch over Joey's chest and shoulders: he's even kind enough to lay down a flower shape on his stomach, a flower much like the markings on a sugar skull with the separated bright red petals. Joey's careful to mix red and green on Lars' shoulder to take on the shape of a spider.

Using his index finger, Lars paints two words on Joey's collar bone with the red paint, as if he's using his own blood. His touch is smooth and the cool paint is a source of relief to his overly warm skin.

“What's that say?” Joey asks him.

“' _Smukt grimt_ ',” Lars replies. “Danish for 'beautifully ugly.'”

“Oh, yeah, well, here's—” Joey paints the words “beautiful tragedy” on Lars' forearm with the green paint, as if he's using his own scarce money. Two boys painting on each other in the late afternoon sun within three feet of the incoming high tide, and nothing to wipe off their hands with.

At one point, Lars climbs to his feet and sets one hand on the rock over Joey's head. Joey meanwhile, stays leaned back to ease his stomach and to let the paint dry in the sunlight.

“We are even more at land's end now,” Lars assures him over the roar of the ocean.

“Fucked up beyond belief and at the end of the earth,” Joey adds as he stretches out his legs before him.

“And now for the million dollar question, Joseph.”

“What's that?”

“How are we getting home?”

Joey gazes out to the vast ocean before him with a blank expression on his face. How he wishes for Millie or a creature like her to make its way onto his lap and soothe the now uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. Too much food and not enough rest.

“I was thinkin' that myself. There was a payphone back by the pier, though. Maybe you could call somebody.”

“Call up Debbie and be like—” Lars sticks out his pinky finger and his thumb and brings his hand to the side of his head. “—'hey, babe—I'm down here in Ventura. Could you come on the next flight and get me?'”

“'Joey's here with me,'” Joey chuckles at the thought.

“Joey's here with me, too! Can't forget about him.”

“Well, we _are_ near L.A.”

“True. We can both start over here if we wish.”

“Near L.A., covered in paint, and... nowhere to go...” Joey sighs through his nose and closes his eyes for a few seconds to take in the remainder of the sunlight.

“Hey, come to think of it—you know what else is at land's end?” He peers up at Lars.

“What's that?”

“Upstate New York. If you think about it. You know, we're wedged in between the Canadian Shield and the Appalachians.”

“You've got the lakes there, too,” Lars adds. “And if you think about it, so is Denmark.”

“Buncha li'l islands off the coast of Germany...” His voice trails off again. The two of them stare out at the ocean, all rich royal blue except for the blanket of bright white reflections upon each wave. Night is going to fall over them soon, and if not that, then the incoming gray clouds off in the distance will reach the California coast first.

“I don't even feel like gettin' up if I'm honest,” he confesses.

“Well, we have to go some time, Joey,” Lars points out. “The bus will be here soon.”

They fall back into silence again, only met by the roar of the ocean and the impending high tide.

“There is startin' over, though,” Joey recalls. “Get the hell outta that apartment I live in and here in Cali for good.”

“True,” Lars answers. “Call off my engagement and just go back to L.A. and... do it from there.”

“How much money you got?” Joey raises an eyebrow at him.

“Just enough to warrant dinner and a pair of plane tickets for the both of us.”

“Well... shit.”

Lars nods his head.

“Mind you,” he starts again, “if we do stay out here in southern California, you would have to explain to Anthrax why you're out here and not back home in New York.”

“I doubt they'll give two fucks about it,” Joey confesses with a shrug of his shoulders, “but come to think of it—I wonder how my parents would react to me just picking up and leaving without tellin' 'em.”

“So—we have no choice but to go home.”

Joey glances up to him with his eyebrows raised.

“Let's keep this place a secret between us, though,” he suggests. “It'll be like our hiding place.”

“The beach?” Lars asks him.

“Any place deemed 'at land's end,'” Joey clarifies. “It can be like... the place we come to to escape the world for a little while. Nuthin' fancy, but it's sump'n, you know?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lars follows along. When the going gets brutal upon us, we'll come to a place like this. Now let's catch the next bus back to Santa Monica. I gotta wash my hands and also—coincidentally, call up Debbie and tell her what happened up in the Bay Area to warrant this. She must be concerned as to why I withdrew so much money from our bank account.”

“Well, shit,” Joey says aloud. "Just go back to where we start..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"so now you lay yourself down in this grave with shattered eyes,  
>  beautiful melodies to try and wash away the lies.  
> and this judgment day is drawing near;  
> and this confession is killing me again."_  
> -"beautiful tragedy", in this moment


	17. joey and lars on ventura beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little accompanying illustration i did for that last chapter. it started life as just me messing around with the gradients on my tablet and then i thought, "i'll transfer this to my computer because it looks like a sunset over the ocean." and sure enough, it came to fruition 💜

**Author's Note:**

> song list:
> 
> 1\. down and out // joey belladonna  
> 2\. a thousand years // christina perri  
> 3\. funeral song // sleater-kinney  
> 4\. what about us // p!nk  
> 5\. mad hatter // melanie martinez  
> 6\. life is killing me // type o negative  
> 7\. straight to hell // the clash  
> 8\. fall children // afi  
> 9\. buried myself alive // the used  
> 10\. bury me deep // the sisters of mercy  
> 11\. emotion sickness // silverchair  
> 12\. unfaithful // rihanna  
> 13\. subway to venus // red hot chili peppers  
> 14\. kill me // the pretty reckless  
> 15\. chloe dancer/crown of thorns // mother love bone  
> 16\. burnin' for you // shiny toy guns  
> 17\. beautiful tragedy // in this moment


End file.
